Authors: Warren C Easley
That evening I was having a glass of pinot noir out on the side porch. I'd selected a pricey bottle of Beaux Frères from a case I kept for special occasions and ambitious meals. Owing to the battering I'd taken over the last few days, I figured I'd earned a little enjoyment. The grapes for the wine grew not far from my place, and I marveled at how a simple fruit like a grape could produce such rich, complex flavors. I sipped it slowly and watched the bats swoop and dive as the last rays of the sun filtered through the Doug firs, thankful to be off my feet and to have all the medical probing and prodding done with.
I had just finished leaving Philip a message on his cell when Archie started barking. I walked around to the front just in time to see Alexis Bruckner's silver Jaguar pull though the open gate. She stayed in the car as Archie continued to bark. As I approached, she rolled down her window and shot me a look. “Can you call him off?”
“Hush, Arch. Mind your manners. What are you doing here, Alexis? This isn't a good idea.”
She locked both hands on the steering wheel. “Oh, it's okay if you come to my place, but not the other way around?”
“I wanted to warn you about the break-in, and about the fact that I'd told Escalante and Dorn about the affair.”
Her eyes flashed. “Yeah, thanks a lot for that.”
I shrugged. “They would have found out on their own. They check phone records, you know.”
She glanced at Archie, then got out of the Jag and faced me. She wore skinny jeans, a lavender tank top, and calf-high leather boots. Her eyes were puffy and slightly bloodshot with bluish circles under them. “That's not why I came, Cal. My house was broken into last night. The prowler you told me about. He must've come back. I'm a little freaked, and I, uh, don't know who to turn to.”
“Did you call the police?”
“
Of course
. Look, Cal. I know you didn't kill my husband. And I'm sorry about the impression I left with those detectives from Madras about you. After all, I was blindsided by their knowledge of the affair. And it was mostly my attorney's spin, not mine, anyway.”
I nodded. “Does your attorney know you're here?”
“No
. Nobody does. Christ, Cal, you live in the middle of nowhere.”
She was here. Might as well see what's on her mind, I decided. Besides, she seemed genuinely upset. I ushered her to the side porch, flipped on the lights, and invited her to sit down. She eyed my quarter-filled wineglass, but I didn't offer her a drink. Archie lay down next to my chair, propped his chin on his paws, and watched her.
“So, what exactly happened last night?”
“Well, I was out for the evening. They jimmied a window off the deck. Came in and apparently went straight for Hal's study. I'd been busy in there packing up some books and files that Mitch had asked me for. Hal did a lot of his work in that office. Anyway, the room looked like a bomb had gone off. Paper scattered everywhere.”
“Any idea what they might have been looking for?”
“No. Not really. Mitch looked around afterward. He thought maybe some personnel files and files concerning the Diamond Wire work were missing, but he wasn't sure.”
The files I filched, I said to myself. I made a mental note to have another, more careful look at them.
Alexis leaned back in her chair, breathed a long sigh, and looked me in the eyes. “You know more about this situation than you're telling me, don't you?”
I didn't answer. “How are you and Hannon getting along?
She blew a dismissive breath. “Oh, another one of my stupid mistakes, I suppose.” Then she smiled and added, “I don't put
you
in that category, dear. Mitch is a man on the rise. You know, the usualâambition and greed. I shouldn't have turned the company over to him so quickly. That was a mistake.”
“NanoTech's yours, then?”
“That's what Hal's will states, yes.” She paused and dropped her gaze to the splintery floor boards of my porch. “I don't trust Mitch. Hell, I don't trust anyone at NanoTech. Hal's murder, now this break-in. She leaned forward, tears in her eyes. “I'm scared to death, Cal.”
“What's not to trust about Duane Pitman and Andrew Streeter?”
“Nothing specific, I suppose. Andrew's a creep. Plays the Southern gentleman. What a joke. And he's no gift to women, despite what he thinks. He seemed to idolize Hal, but Hal didn't like him from the get-go. He was going to fire him, I think. But Mitch wants to keep him. Mitch likes yes men.”
“So Streeter's staying at NanoTech?”
“That's the plan.”
“What about Pitman?”
Alexis laughed. “Duane's such an ingrate. Hal was so good to him. Now Mitch is worried that he's going to leave the company and take his inventions and secrets with him.”
“He could do that?”
“Oh, I don't know. Apparently Hal and Duane did everything on a handshake. Now Mitch is worried that the right security papers didn't get signed or something,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders.
“I see. Sounds like Hannon would like to get rid of Pitman.”
“Oh, in a heartbeat, but only if he can locate those papers.”
“What about Daina Zakaris? How does she fit in?”
“Daina's fine by me, but Mitch wants her out as soon as possible.”
I raised my eyebrows.
Alexis laughed again. “Not surprising. Mitch's threatened by intelligent women, myself excluded, of course. But Daina has a six-month contract she negotiated with Hal. Mitch is looking at buying her out.”
I wondered why Mitch would be so anxious to get Daina and her people out of NanoTech. Alexis looked down at her hands, which were fidgeting in her lap. I studied her for a couple of beats. If this was an act, it was a damn good one. “There's not a lot I can tell you at this point, Alexis, except to be very careful until this thing gets sorted out. I don't think anyone in our party actually killed your husband, but I think someone on the inside helped set it up. I don't think it was a random killing.”
Alexis shivered perceptibly. “Oh, God, don't say that. What if they come after
me
?”
“I don't think they will, but keep things locked and don't open the door to strangers.” That felt like lame advice, but it's all I could offer.
She managed a weak smile and looked down at Arch. “Maybe I should get a guard dog.”
I chuckled. “Wouldn't be a bad idea. Uh, one more thing. Did Mitch know about you and me?”
She hesitated for a moment. “Well, I might have mentioned something.”
“Did he, or for that matter, anyone else at NanoTech have any way of knowing I was going to be on the trip?”
“I don't really know. I suppose Hal knew you were coming. I mean you're the one who sold him on the idea that night at the Lyle Hotel. But I don't know if he told anyone else.”
I stood up, stretched, and glanced at my watch. “I've got to run to a meeting tonight,” I lied. I was happy for the information, but the longer she stayed, the more nervous I got.
I walked her back to her car. She turned to face me, glancing down at Archie, and smiled. “That dog of yours never did like me.”
“Yeah, well, it's a two-way street, Alexis.”
She stepped in close to me. Her eyes came up to meet mine, and the tips of her breasts nearly touched my chest. “I'm, uh, sorry things didn't work out for us, Cal.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.
I smiled and stepped back. “It was for the best, Alexis.”
At seven the next morning I sat in my car down the street from CJ Manion's place, trying to decide how to play it. Should I wait for her to come out or just go up and knock? Had Spiky Hair warned her about me? Probably, although I held out some hope he had bought my tough-guy routine the other night and kept his mouth shut.
At eight-thirty with no sign of her, I decided to just go up and ring the bell. She lived in a small, unkempt bungalow set back from the street behind a low chain-link fence laced with weeds and vines. Three newspapers were on the porch, and there were no lights on inside. I rang a couple of times and wasn't surprised when no one answered. I doubted she'd left before seven, and wondered how long she'd been gone and why.
I went back to my car and glanced at my watch. Philip should be at the airport by now, I figured. He'd received the confirmations for the ticket and the rental car, but I wanted to make sure everything was okay. I punched in his speed dial digit. “It's Cal. You all set?”
“Yep. Just checked in. The flights on time. It's all good, Cal.”
On my way back to Dundee, I felt anxious and depressed. Philip was the best stand-in I could ask for, but I wanted to be there to meet Claire in person, damn it. Frustration tinged with panic swept over me when I considered my situation. I was caught between someone bent on framing me for a murder and a sadistic cop who would like nothing better than to make that happen. It certainly wasn't the kind of atmosphere I wanted to bring Claire into, either. And one thing was crystal clear. I couldn't afford to wait around for Jefferson County's finest to crack this case. That job was mine.
My mind drifted to the last time I was in L.A. I'd gone to Forest Lawn Memorial Park to pay my respects at my wife's grave. It was a hot day, and I remembered feeling agitated as I sat down next to her marker. I laid a dozen yellow roses, her favorite, on the grass. My thoughts were jumbled, but after a few minutes a light breeze materialized, and although I was too far inland, I thought I could smell the ocean. My mind began to clear. It was as if she had joined me.
“Claire's doing great at Berkeley,” I remember saying in a low voice. “She's almost through with her course work and has started her thesis research. She's going to make a great environmental scientist. She's a young woman now, and I'm trying to let go, you know, like you used to tell me. Don't hover. I wish you could be here to see this. God, I miss you, Nancy.” I started to choke up but caught myself. I hadn't gone there to wallow in self pity.
The traffic ahead of me on I-5 slowed abruptly, jerking me back to the present. I switched on the radio, punched in the 89.1 jazz station, and turned the volume up. When I swung off Eagle Nest onto our long drive, I could see Archie waiting at the gate. He took off across the field, and when I pulled through the gate, circled around behind the car and herded me into the garage. When I got out of the car, he stood there whimpering and wagging his stump of a tail, a grungy tennis ball in his jaws.
We played fetch the slobber ball until my arm began to ache. I was rescued when my cell buzzed with a call from Nando. “Calvin, I have the ViCAP information for you.”
“Wow, that was fast.”
“Yes, well my source was quite accommodating. It seems your man Chuck could, indeed, be a contract killer. There is a gentleman the Zetas cartel uses for single hits north of the border, usually somebody they are very upset with. This assassin likes to get in close and use a knife.”
My stomach fluttered. “Sounds like my boy.”
“Your
boy
is a sadistic psychopath and very good at what he does. At least ten assassinations have been attributed to this man. The Zetas call him El Cuchillo, which means The Blade. The general description you gave me fits, along with the viciousness of the attack.”
“But this doesn't look like a cartel hit.”
“It could have been a freelance contract. He is known for it, a believer in free enterprise. There is considerable demand out there for competent hit men, you know. And he's not Latino. He's Anglo.”
“Do you have any photos of him?”
“Only one, of poor quality. The man is like a ghost.”
“Scan it and e-mail it to me right away, okay?”
“Very well. I trust you are keeping your Glock handy. You should take it with you when you go out at night. This man is very dangerous, Calvin.”
“I'll consider it.” Then I thought of Daina. “Did you turn up anything of interest on the woman, Daina Zakaris?”
“Actually, I did. She's Lithuanian, like you said, good credit, no criminal record, owns a consultancy business up in Seattleâ”
“Good.”
“But something weird came up when I looked to see if she'd ever shown up in the press.”
“Weird?”
“Yes, I ran across a short newspaper article that said a Daina Zakaris had died in a gas explosion down in Los Angeles fourteen years ago. I guess it was just a coincidence, but the name is rather unusual.”
“Huh, I think you're right, Nando. Has to be a coincidence.”
Sure. It had to be a coincidence. Really.
I went into the study and booted up my laptop. The photo of El Cuchillo came in first. The grainy, poorly focused snapshot showed a man getting into a taxi, his head partially turned toward the camera, grim-faced, watchful. I had seen the guy who pushed me into the Hood River only briefly and through bleary eyesâthe slender body, the non-descript features. But I was sure. It was him.
A scanned copy of the newspaper article on Daina Zakaris popped up a few moments later from Nando. It was a short article with no photograph. I read through it quickly. The woman had lived in Inglewood, in an apartment complex called Las Brisas. The blast destroyed her apartment. Gas water heater implicated. Killed her instantly. Her next-door neighbor, a woman named Svetlana Tetrovia was wanted for questioning in the explosion. Tetrovia was missing, and an investigation was underway.
I sat back in my chair and rubbed my temples. My stomach felt hollow, my chest tight. I googled Las Brisas. It was still there. I jotted down the directions from LAX to the apartment building and glanced at my watch. Philip would land in another forty minutes. I pecked around impatiently on my computer, then went out and played some more ball with Archie. Forty-five minutes later I had Philip on his cell. “Hey, Cal. I just got off the plane. What's up, Buddy?”
“I've got another favor to ask.” I gave him the gist of the article about Daina that Nando had e-mailed me. “You're maybe twenty minutes from the Las Brisas. I'm wondering if you could, uh, drive over there and see what you can find out. I just want to confirm that the Daina Zakaris we know isn't the one who reportedly died in the blast.”
He laughed. “You're kidding, right? This is your department. I'm just a lowly fishing guide.”
“Come on, man. No false modesty. I've seen you handle those wealthy clients of yours. This is a chip shot. All you have to do is go over there and sweet-talk the manager. The website said her name's Florence Castro. Tell her, or whoever's in the office, that you're an old friend of Daina Zakaris' from Oregon. Uh, tell her you know about the tragic accident and that you were serving your country in Iraq and didn't make the funeral. Ask her if anyone is still around there that knew Daina, that you'd like to talk to them, maybe see where the apartment was. You know, kind of pay your respects, hear about her last days, that sort of thing.”
“I don't know, Cal.”
“It'll work, Philip. Trust me. People love to talk about stuff like this.”
“A friend, huh?”
“Right, but keep it vague. Don't offer too much. And remember, she's Lithuanian. And get a picture of her if you can.”
The line went so quiet I thought the call had dropped. Finally, Philip said, “Okay, Cal. I'll give it my best shot. Am I breaking any laws here?”
“Nope.” I gave him the directions, and he agreed to call back when he'd finished.
I suddenly realized I was starving. I went into the kitchen, separated a sesame bagel and put both halves in the toaster. I got out the cream cheese, red onion, a tomato, a ripe avocado, capers, and smoked salmon. When the bagel came up, I built one helluva sandwich, which I washed down with a Mirror Pond while standing over the sink and looking out on the valley. A silvery haze muted the colors and a lone hunter, maybe a bald eagle, spiraled lazily in an updraft. That damn bird, I thought to myself. Not a care in the world.
It was nearly two hours later when Philip called. “Are you sitting down, Cal?”
My stomach tightened. “Yeah. What'd you find out?”
“At first the woman at the desk was wary, but I played the Iraq vet thing to the hilt. Turned out she has a daughter who's over there now. She directed me to a woman named Gladys who's lived there forever, just a few doors down from where the explosion happened. Everyone in the place thought it was either a plane crash or a terrorist attack. Anyway, Gladys was all too happy to talk about it. She was good friends with Daina, sheâ”
“
Jesus
, Philip. Give me the bottom line.” My normally laconic friend had suddenly become annoyingly verbose.
“I'm coming to it,” he shot back. “Daina Zakaris was in her mid-twenties, worked downtown. A naturalized citizen. I asked for a photograph, and Gladys hauled out an album. She showed me shots of a birthday party she'd held for Daina. Daina was a tall, attractive blond. Very Nordic looking.” I felt a rush of relief and started to speak, but Philip cut me off. “There was another woman in almost all the shots. She was shorter, with dark hair. Cute as a button. Gladys told me her name was Svetlana Tetrovia. A Russian, on a visa. Everyone called her Lana. Cal, that woman is the one we know as Daina Zakaris.”
We both fell silent for several beats. “You're sure?”
“Gladys gave me one of the photographs of the two of them together. There's no doubt in my mind. She told me Lana and Daina were the best of friends. She said Lana disappeared after the explosion. Apparently the police and some of the people in the building thought she might have had something to do with it. But Gladys never bought it. She said Lana was a sweet kid.”
“Spotting that photograph was great work, Philip.”
“Yeah, well, she just kind of jumped out at me. She's got the kind of face you don't forget, and she's hardly aged at all. What do you suppose it means?”
I exhaled a long breath. I felt like my canoe had just gone over a waterfall. “Man, I wish I knew. At the very least, Daina's an identity thief. Listen, Philip, scan that photograph and e-mail it to me, if you can. I need to see it, too.”
“No problem.”
“Are you all set for tomorrow morning? Claire's flight gets in at 9:06.
“Don't worry about a thing, Cal. I'll be there.”
I had no sooner gotten off the phone with Philip when Claire called from Dubai, her voice as clear and bright as a silver bell. Her flight would be boarding in an hour, she told me. She couldn't wait to get to the Aerie and was looking forward to seeing Philip in L.A. If she was disappointed that I wasn't meeting her, she hid it pretty well, saying only, with a tease in her voice, “This long story you promised me better be a good one, Dad.”
Arch and I drove over to the Fred Meyer in Newberg and laid in extra provisions for her stay. I tried to remember all her favorite treats, tooâChai tea, dark chocolate-hazelnut bars, Greek yogurt, and Tillamook Mudslide ice cream. I think I got most of them.
Later that night, I lay on the couch in the study trying to sort everything out. On the bright side, I now had a solid lead on the man who had killed Hal Bruckner, Hank Barnes, and nearly me. If CJ Manion cooperates, I might have a shot at his location, maybe even his name. If I could get Oliver Dan and his skateboarding buddies to identify El Cuchillo as the man they saw drop off the stolen Ford F-150, then I'd be on my way to proving the train theory. That might even be enough to persuade Escalante and Dorn to pick him up. That is, of course, if he was still in the Northwest.
The situation with Daina Zakaris, also known as Svetlana Tetrovia, was another matter completely. The photograph of the two women had come through an hour earlier. Philip was right. There was no question the Daina I knew was Tetrovia. The news hit me with a shotgun blast of emotionsâanger at being duped by someone I trusted, shock at losing an ally in my fight to clear my name, and fear of what this could mean for me. And there was something elseâa sense of loss. I found myself thinking about those nights on my deck and the lunch we'd shared and realized she'd managed to capture a bit of my heart. You know better than that, I told myself, and now look what's happened.
No, I couldn't afford to trust Daina, or I should say Svetlana, anymore. All bets were off.
I went to my office in Dundee the next morning, met with one client, then left for the Portland airport. It was smooth sailing until I got to the I-205, which was stop and go. But I'd left in plenty of time, and for once didn't find the traffic so onerous. After all, I was on my way to pick up my daughter, and despite the troubling news about Daina, found myself in a fine mood. I parked in the near-term lot and made my way through the terminal to the entry way for arriving passengers.
About ten minutes before her scheduled arrival, two TV camera crews showed up along with reporters, who were easy to spot because they were the two best-dressed of the lot. Maybe the local media had picked up Claire's story, I mused. Having a basic distrust of the media, particularly TV, I found myself hoping that wasn't the case, then realized that wish was more about me than my daughter. Why shouldn't she be recognized? She was a hero as far as I was concerned.
When passengers from the L.A. flight began filing out, I worked my way to the front of the crowd that had gathered. “There she is!” I blurted out when I saw her. Claire was in a wheelchair being pushed by Philip, who had a broad smile on his face. Sheathed in a plaster cast, her right leg jutted forward. She had definitely lost weight and looked tired, but her face lit up when she saw me, her auburn hair bouncing on her shoulders. She wore a navy blue sweatshirt with
BERKELEY
scripted in gold across the front and a pair of sweatpants that had been split up the right leg to accommodate her cast.
With Philip's help she stood up from the chair and called out, “Dad!” As we embraced, klieg lights came on behind us. The media was, in fact, there to cover her homecoming, and they obviously weren't going to give us much private time. I quickly moved aside and watched in awe as, poised and articulate, she handled them effortlessly.
At one point a reporter not much older than Claire asked, “What did you worry most about while you were in captivity?”
Claire looked over at me, smiled, and said, “My dad. I worried that my dad would worry too much about me.”
Several people in the crowd said “Ooh” in sympathetic tones, and then the reporters turned to me. I put up a hand and tried to wave them off, the emotions so strong at seeing her that I wasn't sure I could get an intelligible word out. But they persisted, and I managed to say something about how proud of her I was. In midst of my fumblings, I caught a glimpse of Philip standing off to the side. He was chuckling, but with me, not at me.
We escorted Philip to his truck and I thanked him for the umpteenth time for being there for me and Claire. I invited him to dinner, but he begged off. “I've got to get back to Madras,” he explained. “Got a client who wants a single day on the Deschutes tomorrow.”
Claire said, “Isn't the salmon fly hatch on right now? Isn't this your busy time of year on the Deschutes, Philip?”
Philip looked at me and didn't speak. I said, “Uh, that's part of the long story I owe you, Claire.”